


All about you

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Power Dynamics, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom has an underhanded way of getting what he wants.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 212





	All about you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, I have no words to justify this awful, awful thing.

They’d had a disagreement. Harry was loath to call it an argument because, clearly, _he_ was right, and Tom was wrong. But it was certainly a divergence of views, and for a good half an hour now, they’d been sitting across the room from one another, glaring and occasionally making additional points of protest, just waiting for the other to make a mistake. 

Technically, there was nothing _physically_ stopping either of them from leaving, only their stubborn pride. For, both of them knew, as soon as one of them got up and left, even with the suggestion that these stand-offs were for children, that person would have lost. If it was Harry who gave in, he'd be publicly declaring his own cowardice and Tom would hold it up as another exemplar of his own innate superiority for a very long time. 

So, Harry stayed. 

Just sitting on one of the leather sofas in Tom’s study, whilst he sat in the other. In previous relationships this sort of simmering animosity would have descended into a shouting match where everyone would have used the opportunity to sharpen their tongues and say cruel things for the sake of it; this was far more controlled in comparison. 

Each of them vying to write the narrative.

Tom shifted in the silence, stretching his neck and cracking his knuckles; he was looking unfairly attractive today, and if they hadn’t been currently in conflict, Harry was sure they would be doing far more _enjoyable_ activities. But they _were_ currently in conflict, so he tried to put that thought in the back of his mind, and instead focus on staring Tom down until he relented. 

He didn’t relent. 

In fact, the only thing Tom did do was let the corner of his mouth quirk upward, as though he’d suddenly thought of an amusing idea, which was never a good thing. Still holding his gaze, Tom let his right hand slowly wander down the length of his chest, whilst his left stayed resting on the arm of the chair. He smiled at Harry, even as his fingers continued downward, tracing lightly over his shirt as it clung to the elegant line of his waist, before coming to rest on the shiny buckle of his belt. “I do hope you realise that you’re not going to win this, Harry,” Tom murmured, still holding his eyes. 

“Not when you disregard the facts just so that you can continue to claim to be right.” Tom’s hand paused. “ _Especially_ when you’re wrong.”

Harry swallowed; he could already sense that this was going to go somewhere it shouldn’t. It was in the calmness of Tom’s tone, one that practically bordered on carelessness, as though Tom already knew he was going to get what he wanted so what was the point in trying too hard for it. 

But if Tom thought he was going to back down that easily, then he was going to be thoroughly disappointed. 

Instead, Harry continued to hold his gaze and force his own smile, even as Tom’s hand dipped lower and slowly began to touch himself. The palm of his hand curving over the material of his slacks at just the right angle to make his eyelids flutter shut with the feigned vulnerability of a butterfly’s wing, and to breathe deeply. The exhale a low, full, sound that was so unbearably loud in the otherwise silent room. 

It was indecent to watch.

But as much as Harry hated it, he could already feel the heat rising under his collar; a stickiness beginning on the back of his neck as he continued to watch Tom so adeptly turn himself on. Though, under all the soft, slow touches there was an undeniable inauthenticity to each movement. Every press of his palm was too proficient to have been anything other than a performance curated for this purpose alone, and that was far more tantalising that Harry was willing to admit. 

Just the thought of Tom sitting in front of the mirror _practising_ , just so he could get what he wanted, made something swing low and heavy in Harry’s stomach; the beginning of a dull ache that got his hands curling into fists and his nails digging into his palms. 

Another breathing sigh knocked him out of those fantasy thoughts, and Harry had to blink a couple of times. Tom came back into focus. He was still sitting there, the lights of the room highlighting the sharp angles of his face, and only emphasising the parting of his lips and the wide spread of his thighs. Tom only widened that spread as he continued to run his fingers over the inner seam of his slacks and tease his palm over the metal of his zip. 

It was such a shameless grab at control. 

And it was fucking working. 

Tom hadn’t even done anything truly _inappropriate_ yet, but Harry could already feel the foundations of his resistance starting to show signs of weakness. They’d never played this particular iteration of the power struggle game, but, if the other versions were anything to go by, then Harry was going to get frustrated too quickly and Tom was going to insufferably smug about it.

Before he could muse on it for any length of time though, Harry was interrupted but the sound of Tom unclipping his belt, letting each of the ends lay over each hip, spread indecently and framing the movements of his fingers as they undid the buttons of his slacks, before sliding down the zipper. The noise was another grating to Harry’s ear and it made him grit his teeth together and pull every muscle in his back tighter than tight so that he sat up straighter; his fingers gripping tighter at the arm of the chair. 

Tom had always played dirty, but this…

This was dragging them both down to a new level of baseness. 

Not that Tom seemed overly concerned with the precedent for argument resolution he was currently setting; his only concern was the pressing of his fingers inside his slacks and the easing out of his cock, already hard and rosy, slicked at the head. 

Tom had the audacity to smile lazily at him then, to hold his eyes on his own, even as he licked his lips and lightly began to run his fingers along the tender underside of his cock and shuddering as he did so. 

Harry didn’t move, and he certainly didn’t react because _that_ was exactly what Tom wanted him to do. A simple, tangible reaction that he could then hook onto and exploit to his advantage like he had done so many times before. Well, he wasn’t going to this time. Harry stayed there, painfully aware of how warm this room was, but holding Tom’s gaze; determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that such a blatant attempt at making things go in his favour might just work if he kept it up.

He wasn’t even going to watch Tom’s hands.

No, he was going to focus on Tom’s face, and he was going to pretend that this was a perfectly ordinary state of affairs. 

But, somehow, _not_ watching was so much worse.

Like that, Harry was stuck watching Tom’s face, stuck seeing the flickering of his glazed eyes, and the dark flush that started just as granite speckles on the highs of his cheeks but was now spreading, blooming, like a bouquet of peonies down his neck. Bathing every inch of his skin in a sticky pink flush that made Harry’s mouth far too dry and his imagination wander to places it _really_ shouldn’t.

As if to catch him out, Tom inhaled sharply. 

And, before he could stop himself, Harry glanced down. He bit his lip. Tom’s fingers were trembling as he played with the head of his cock, twisting before sliding down the length again. Harry could almost feel the weight of it, the heat of it and he clenched his hands again, digging his heels into the floor to stop himself doing something impulsive. 

Tom seemed to sense the impulse anyway. “Do you want it, Harry?” he breathed, swallowing hard, “because you can have it,” Tom continued, his voice hitching after every word, “all you have to do… is give in.”

“No,” Harry said immediately, hoping it sounded firm and defiant, but knowing that it came out sounding significantly weaker and far more pathetic. “ _Besides_ ,” he said, trying to focus on Tom’s face and not his own rough breathing, “I think _you_ want it more, Tom,” he continued, “after all, you’re the one sitting there – touching yourself – probably getting off on the fact that I’m here watching you.”

Tom just groaned at that. “Oh,” he said, licking his lips and closing his fingers around the base of his cock and squeezing, biting back another moan that made Harry’s toes curl, “I’m definitely getting off on knowing you’re watching.” 

It was such a brazen confession that Harry could hardly find it in him to even roll his eyes at it. Sure, he’d always known Tom had a shameless streak of exhibitionism, but he’d never seen it used so blatantly to his own advantage, clearly this was an argument he _really_ wanted to win. 

Continuing to practically read his thought, Tom tipped his head further back against the leather of his chair, moaning, as his hips involuntarily shifted with each slide of his hand. To his dismay, Harry knew he was mimicking the motion, just the tiniest rolls of his hips that made a sound so distinctive of denim against leather. Which was all deeply unfair because he was _not_ enjoying this because it was deceitful and underhand and quite frankly manipulative – 

_Oh, who was Harry kidding?_

He wanted it. 

Right now, he was just engaging in a luxurious type of foreplay-esque torture where he had to watch Tom tease himself, whilst knowing full well that he could make it so much better for both of them if he wanted. If he just gave in this one time, then he could get his hands on Tom; he could use him however he wanted until Tom was just begging him for it. 

It would be so easy. 

More knots threaded themselves through Harry’s shoulders as he watched Tom take himself to the right to edge again, before stopping with a squeeze of his hand and a filthy groan. “Come on, Harry,” he murmured, all tight and hot and breathless; his mouth shiny with saliva and his eyes glassy in just the right way, “you know you want to, really.”

With that, anything that was left on Harry’s resistance just dissolved. “Fuck you, Tom,” he said through gritted teeth even as he peeled himself off the sofa and practically stumbled over to him. He’d give in just this once. Just this fucking once, he’d let Tom play him, but next time Tom was absolutely _not_ going to get away with such underhandedness.


End file.
